


This Home is a Tomb

by nctatnightnight



Category: Stray Kids (Band)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Burglary, Cat Burglars, Complicated Relationships, Cunnilingus, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Mystery, Mystery Character(s), Partners in Crime, Smut, Thriller
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-01
Updated: 2020-07-01
Packaged: 2021-03-05 03:26:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,726
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25017730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nctatnightnight/pseuds/nctatnightnight
Summary: The Reader and her partner in crime, Minho, have more to sort through than just what to steal when they set about robbing the Blackstone Mansion.
Relationships: Lee Minho | Lee Know/Reader
Kudos: 13





	This Home is a Tomb

Mrs. Blackstone fired the last of her staff in the middle of the day, looking like a wreck in mourning. Maybe she was, you mused as you set down your binoculars, maybe she was upset that her meal ticket was gone. Maybe, you reluctantly lamented, she was truly distressed that her husband was missing. Minho reached between you and picked up the binoculars to take a look for himself. He was practically glowing on this beautiful day, contrasting hilariously with the storm clouds apparently raging on the hillside property you were currently watching. 

“What did the card say again?” Minho asked casually, mumbling around the cigarette hung off his lip as he watched Mrs. Blackstone throw out the last of the housekeepers and cooks. A butler and what appeared to be a gardener looked especially flabbergasted as they left the gigantic home. Mrs. Blackstone was parading around in a black sweatsuit, hair disheveled and makeup smudged around her eyes. You’d watched her devolve into this for two weeks now. You set down the sandwich in your hand with a grimace as you leaned over on your shared picnic blanket, trying to snatch Minho’s cigarette away. He expertly ducked away from your prying fingers. 

“You said you’re quitting,” you scolded. 

“Be nice to that sandwich, kid, I made that with love,” he smirked, “and I  _ am _ quitting. It’s just taking me a bit. Now tell me what the card said again  _ please _ .”

You sighed and rifled through your purse, pawing through the contents until you found the note you’d quickly scrawled. “The max of one month, starting tomorrow, but she’d written ‘UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE’ next to it.”

Minho nodded with satisfaction through the binoculars. “Even a month is a good long time.”

The whole series of events had been incredible thus far. You’d watched the Blackstone mansion from your secluded little vantage point in the park for a few weeks now. The first week went by dreadfully slow, with nothing of note happening in the giant house. You very nearly called it quits and moved on when Mrs. Blackstone began making crazed phone calls, trying to figure out where her husband was. Yesterday, she marched down to the mailbox at the end of the driveway and shoved a hold card she’d gotten from the carrier into the slot. You had fished out the card with a pair of forceps, copied down the information, and slipped it back inside before the carrier came back the next day. 

Minho suddenly sat up straight from where he’d been reclining and spying on your cozy spot on the hill, warmed by the balmy spring sun. His head barely cocked toward a sound you hadn’t heard yourself. “ _ Someone’s coming _ ,” he murmured, “ _ lie down _ .”

You swiftly complied, laying back as Minho quickly rolled over, respectfully holding his cigarette away from you as he landed between your legs on the gingham picnic blanket. His eyes hardly met yours before they flitted closed and he kissed you. The passionate embrace only lasted until the shiny shoes of the park’s security guard reflected the sunlight across your face. 

“What do you kids think you’re doing?” He asked condescendingly. Minho sat up just enough to cheekily regard the persnickety old man. He waved the pair of binoculars in his other hand. 

“Bird watching.”

The elderly guard scowled. “Well, make sure you use protection. You can start by keeping the young lady’s knees shut.”

Minho almost reflexively barked out a retort as the guard turned to totter away, only stopped as you gave his arm a mindful squeeze. You rolled Minho off of you, waiting until the geezer was out of sight to cough out the cloud of smoke that had accidentally been blown into your mouth. Your friend gave you a weak smile, silently begging for forgiveness. 

“Did that poor girl have to suffer through that the other night, too?” You sneered playfully. Really, Minho had done beautifully, just happening to happen across one of the first of Mrs. Blackstone’s victims at a bar the other night and playing a handsome shoulder to cry on. The poor girl in question was so distraught over being brutally fired from her thankless job that she never noticed Minho sift through her bag once she was five beers in, and it never occurred to her to wonder why he was so curious about her job. Keys in hand, Minho gently tucked the girl into a taxi and paid for it the moment she tried to kiss him. 

It never occurred to you to be jealous of Minho and his endless list of dates, his catalogue of clandestine kisses. Minho was Minho, and he was your best friend, your confidant and business partner all in one. You had been waiting tables at an event Minho had been catering, and he’d found you on his smoke break, disgruntled and brooding by the dumpsters out back behind the venue over some asshat who’d made quite a rude pass at you. 

Minho had been Minho, walking right up to you and sympathetically nudging his foot against yours.  _ “I can tell you right now they aren’t worth it,” _ he’d said. He had offered you his arm to lead you back into the kitchen, where he extinguished his cigarette on top of a filet mignon, covered it in wine sauce, and had it sent out to the jerk’s table. “ _ Tiny rebellions, kid _ ,” he’d smirked his little giddy smirk. “ _ When you don’t have control, take it. _ ”

It didn’t take long for you to become fast friends, the two of you cavorting through bars or having dinner together or just watching movies, but you were the one to suggest you try stealing. You weren’t even drunk. Minho had stared at you over his espresso in the crowded cafe.  _ Tiny rebellions _ , you’d reminded him, and you needed quite the rebellion to quell the fire growing in you over the years. The first time you stole together, it was like an extra birthday, both of you growing a little more. That was the first time you kissed, an accidental peck as you embraced each other in your excitement once you returned to his apartment. You had found the control, you had found the power. You were both weirdly good at this, and this newfound skill felt like a waste to let sit by the wayside. Each night you stole you felt like a new woman, an optimized version of the person you were before. 

But it was a night like that first that would bring you to this grassy hill in a part of the city you never could’ve dreamed of living in. Of course, you and Minho still needed day jobs. The gala had taken place in the gaudy mansion you were now observing, and the event was verbose, all boisterous men and bored wives. To put it lightly, Mr. Blackstone was a pig. He was a horrid pig, and when Minho sympathetically nudged his foot against yours out back behind the kitchen this time, he found you in tears. He had spit out his cigarette and dropped to meet your eye where you sat on the stoop, his hands firm on your shoulders. “ _ Whatever you want to do, we’ll do it, _ ” he’d promised. Mr. Blackstone wouldn’t stop talking about this stupid mansion, this garishly luxurious home behind its tall gates, and that’s what you wanted. You wanted to ruin the pig’s precious little house. 

Which brought you to this lovely afternoon, packing up your lovingly crafted picnic and watching the rest of the shitshow unfold. The Blackstone clan was comprised of the paternal figurehead, his alarmingly young bride, and their three children, currently pestering their frantic mother as she made them pack their things, promising they would have  _ so much fun _ in Cancun, and maybe their daddy would join them but he is  _ so busy with work _ . Surely, the kids had to have overheard the conversations with various friends and business partners, all of whom had tried to convince Mrs. Blackstone  _ not _ to leave, to  _ wait _ until her husband returned and  _ not _ try to goad him into coming back or being the one to begin divorce proceedings himself. This seemed to be Mrs. Blackstone’s own little rebellion, and she was committed. You had counted the staff, and in addition to the frazzled mother and her young children peeling out of the driveway, the home was now empty, a corpse on the hill opposite yours sitting cold in the sun. 

You still wanted to wait until shortly before rush hour, when it wouldn’t be unheard of to see people out and about, but there wouldn’t be too many passerby to focus on you and Minho entering the grand estate. This meant you had time for final checks, lounging on the back patio of Minho’s humble apartment on the other side of the city. Final checks meant all the keys and codes were reviewed, your vehicles and contacts were secured, your alibis were prepared, and your extra supplies were gathered. You shared one beer on the back porch, just one send-off like this each time before you went out in case something went catastrophically wrong. Minho was handsome in the low sun, almost golden in this light. He one hand wrapped around the perspiring glass bottle and his other hand balled up in the sleeve of his light jacket, keeping him from reaching for the pack he promised you he wouldn’t touch again for the rest of the day. 

Your normally resilient partner was hesitant as you walked up to the gate. He wore one bag slung across his back. You carried one bag hanging from your shoulder. He fumbled with the keys that he would have to return to that poor girl someday, pausing as you rested your fingers on his. His hesitance was calculated. 

“This is the biggest place we’ve ever tagged,” he said quietly, staring at the gate code inscribed on the back of one of the keys. “It’s a fucking castle.”

“We can turn back,” you reminded him, “this is the last chance.”

Minho sighed. “Tell me we can do this.”

“ _ I _ can do this because  _ you _ can do this,” You soothed, your thumb gliding over the back of his hand where you held it. “We can do this. You look good, by the way.”

Minho laughed at the unexpected compliment. “I know. So do you, kid. I knew this dress was a good color on you.”

He smiled and tugged the skirt of your dress, almost as if for good luck. You were both dressed casually prim and wholesome enough to match the decoy bibles and missionary pamphlets sitting at the tops of your bags. This getup had thankfully only been needed once so far, but even then you’d cried laughing about it over beers that night. On this late afternoon, however, you both held your breath as Minho punched in the gate code. 

The walk up to the house was exposing. The lawn was barren, the only evidence of life being the tire tracks Mrs. Blackstone had left on the driveway in her mania. The doorbell had no camera, possibly due to the meager rent-a-cops patrolling the illustrious community and the fact that Mr. Blackstone was the worst kind of old man, dubious of any electronic device more modern than a television remote. When no answer came at the door, Minho set about to try two more times and you turned to watch the street beyond the grand lawn. Once you were both sure no one was coming, Minho intrepidly slid the door key into the lock and turned it, the old tumblers inside the mechanism clicking into place. You heard him let out a gulped breath behind you as he pushed the door open.

The foyer was dark, save for the modest light streaming in through the high window above you. Before you stood two staircases lining the walls before reconjoining at the landing. Just over your head was another slim walkway connecting both wings. Upstairs would be the bedrooms, the study, and a sitting room. The ground floor beyond the foyer held the kitchen, the dining room, the living room, and another sitting room. At one end of the mansion was an immaculate greenhouse overlooking the garden with an entrance on both floors, just like the library at the other end of the house. The backyard held the garden, the pool and jacuzzi, Mr. Blackstone’s treasured putting green, and the sizable garage, minus Mrs. Blackstone’s pretty car. 

Silence like the silence currently reverberating through the walls of the mansion felt loaded, heavy, like the walls in this monument of a house could swallow you whole. Each room you scanned and checked was vacuous, devoid of warmth in the declining sunlight falling in through the windows. Some rooms would be off limits, of course. You surveyed the whole house, but shut the doors to the children’s rooms, the library, and the greenhouse. As you went down the back hallway behind the kitchen and dining room, and descended into the staff quarters, you shut that as you left, too. The toys, the photos, all the staff’s belongings that suddenly made you incredibly nervous that they would be asked after — it all made your heart thump, but that was all fixed once the doors were shut. There was a basement beyond the door to the staff quarters, but that door wouldn’t even open. You would have to find a key, but in the meantime everything you wanted to forfeit was forfeited. You had standards. Everything else was fair game.

As you reconvened with Minho where you set up in the sitting room, he had already stripped off his proper cardigan and rolled up the sleeves of his shirt to begin categorizing items. The toned lines of his arms still showed through his shirt, along with the gentle definition of his chest, but you kept yourself from getting distracted. You worked together, grunting and pushing the heavy couch and easy chairs to one side, rolled up the rug, and separated the rest of the items into piles you understood to be  _ Leave _ ,  _ Fine _ , and  _ Good _ . In case of emergencies,  _ Good _ would be the pile to grab in each room. In this case,  _ Good _ held a Tiffany lamp and a collection of painted plates. The furniture, while certainly valuable, could be left behind in case of proverbial fire. Minho had lined up a couple friends at the waterfront market to make a side trip after their restaurant deliveries to pick up a load in their big white box truck any time they were called upon. If anyone came sniffing, the whole neighborhood was wary enough of the Blackstone family that no one would question if you said you were specially hired to move the furniture while the house’s occupants were out. Hopefully it wouldn’t need to get that far, but you were at least thankful to be prepared. Truthfully, the real blessing in this scenario was with the house empty for the month and your fairly lenient work schedules, you could theoretically take as much time as you needed. 

Predictably, there were some things you simply couldn’t do yourself, like reaching a vase every once in a while or moving a particularly heavy lamp, but Minho would always appear over your shoulder to help, even when you didn’t want him to. From the night that brought you together to the night that would bring you to the mansion, Minho was fast to swoop in and protect you. It was odd, considering how he always insisted you were strong and independent, but he was always there. The moment you needed help pulling a clock off the mantle or lifting a heavy planter out of the way, he was there, even taking over in many cases. You almost never opened your own beer bottles, you almost never even cooked by yourself if he was around, insisting that if a chef was around then you needed to take advantage. You loved and appreciated your best friend, truly, but if Minho had any flaws it would start with how protective and doting he could be. 

Minho be damned, he was right — the house was a fucking castle. It was easy to fall into a rhythm as you moved through each room of the giant home, but it seemed endless. You and Minho progressed at a grueling pace but still only ended up halfway through the ground floor and halfway through the top floor by the middle of the night. Minho leafed through the racks of clothes Mrs. Blackstone had left behind in her closet. It went without saying that the husband and wife did not share a bedroom, and probably not because one of them snored. 

“I hate to say it,” Minho giggled as he pulled out a slinky gown, “but I bet Mrs. Blackstone wore this to her graduation… from high school.” The gown was gorgeous — floor length, deep gold with inconsequential straps and a gratuitous slit up the thigh — but certainly too young for however mature the trophy wife was pretending to look now. You turned to look as Minho held up the gown against you on its hanger. 

“What?”

“Try this on,” he said thoughtfully, cocking his head as he looked at the dress against you. 

“Seriously?” You laughed bashfully. 

“No, I just feel like pushing,” Minho rolled his eyes and pushed the gown into your hands. “We need a break and we should eat. I’m gonna check out the kitchen. You better meet me down there in this.” His smile was grand, commanding, and you were eternally jealous for how easy he made it look. Minho turned to leave the closet but paused to quickly grab a pair of heels, check the size, and push those into your arms as well. 

You looked at the dress and shoes in your hands and then back to the open door of the closet, suddenly shy that Minho would see you shed your modest sundress and cardigan. You’d seen each other in various stages of undress before, you’d kissed multiple times by now, but as you dropped your current outfit to the floor of the closet, you were struck with the curious sensation of enjoying this kind of attention from your friend. The strict confines of the bodice of the dress wouldn’t allow for a bra, as reinforced by the meager padding in the bust, so this was left on the floor of the closet as well. The shoes fit just fine but were tall, the stiletto heels feeling treacherous as you tried them out. 

Minho was stretched out on top of the giant dining room table when you came down, the clicking of the heels he’d chosen making him sit up from where he’d been reclining with a bottle of champagne. He took a moment as he stared at you, swiping the back of his hand against his lips, still fizzing with the bubbling drink, and raised the bottle to you as a toast. It was dark in the cavernous space, the strict rules you both played by meaning you would only use as many lights as were necessary. In this case, it meant only a few accent lamps were on to illuminate you in your glitzy outfit. You made a coy curtsy in your gown before striding up to him at the table. Minho looked down at himself, still in his jeans and buttoned up shirt. 

“I guess I don’t quite meet the dress code,” he laughed. 

“No,” you shrugged, “but don’t worry about it. Everything that isn’t hers smells like him.”

“Hey, kid…” Minho’s sideways smile broke into a frown as he reached out for your hand. “You wanna talk about it?”

“I don’t think so,” you shook your head with a reluctant smile, “but you better tell me you found something good to eat.”

Minho’s hand remained outstretched, so you kicked off the high heels and shifted the gown so you could climb on top of the ridiculously long table in the stupidly big dining room. “Close your eyes,” he grinned. You did as you were told when you felt Minho place the hefty bottle in your hands. “Alright, that’s the champagne,” he instructed, the quiet excitement in his voice endearing. He waited for you to take a sip, let the bubbles really coat your tongue before you swallowed. You knew this game. “You’ll never guess what I found.”

“Ugh, Minho,” you groaned in realization, “cheese?”

“Yes!” He exulted, and you could hear him shuffling around beside him. Everything sounded more open in the echoing room. You could sense his fingers near your lips. “Come on, I didn’t take you to all those wine tastings just to feel fancy. Guess the cheese correctly and you get a treat.”

Unable to roll your eyes as they were closed, you settled for a dramatically discontent sigh as you let Minho place a morsel on your presented tongue. You really tried to taste and play this game as Minho boyishly bounced beside you. “It’s creamy,” you pondered, “it melts in your mouth, it’s not super strong, but it’s… earthy?”

“Yes?” Minho was practically beside himself. 

“Brie? I heard you using a cheese knife.” You paused, waiting for his reaction. 

“No!” Minho guffawed. “Close. Camembert. But I suppose you can still get a treat.”

“Can I open my eyes yet?” You asked, facetiously bored by all this. 

“No, dummy,” Minho chided. You felt his hands grasp your knees and turn you on the table to face him. He tipped your chin towards him again when you felt his fingers pause. “Is this… lipstick?” The pad of his thumb lightly tapped against your lower lip. 

“I carry some in my bag for work,” you shrugged, “you’ve seen it before. I thought it looked good with the dress. Is it too much?”

“Not too much,” he said quietly, a whisper in this big room in this bigger house, “and I don’t think you were wearing this dress last time I saw you with it on.”

“I was still me the last time I had it on,” you teasingly countered.

“You’ve always been you,” Minho agreed. His thumb still hadn’t left your lip where he cradled your face. “You’ve always been you, and you’ve sort of become precious to me, I guess. More than anything I could steal.”

“Minho,” you smirked, his hand on your chin tickling a bit, “I’m not some diamond. And if I’m not getting my treat then I’m going back to work and I would love some real food.”

Minho’s silence was odd as you opened your eyes, almost like he was on the cusp of saying something. You searched him for what he was thinking but came up short. Surely a nice dress and a tube of lipstick wasn’t all it took to make Minho speechless, but here he was, suddenly dumb and watching you as you shrugged and slid off the table. You plucked your discarded heels up off the floor, carrying them in one hand and keeping the bottle of champagne in the other as you made your way back upstairs to return to Mrs. Blackstone’s room. 

You set the bottle down in front of the ludicrous three-way mirror in the corner of the room, this one only lit by a bedside table lamp, and looked at yourself in the dress, maybe even admiring. Even then, you still couldn’t see what all the fuss was about downstairs. Maybe your answer would come, possibly, as you noticed Minho behind you in the doorway. The silence of the house was squeezing you again as he strode across the hardwood towards you. 

“You have a problem,” he ruled. You scoffed. 

“I do? What would that be?”

“Oh, don’t be like that,” Minho rolled his eyes, “tell me what it is and we can fix it—“

“That!” You excitedly pointed, catching Minho off guard, even making him take a step back. “You said I’m precious and you sure treat me like it. You’re always trying to fix everything and do everything and—“ you gestured obviously at the outfit you were currently wearing, “—even dressing me up but when I just put on some lipstick without your permission you’re suddenly impressed with me. You  _ say _ you’re easy going but I  _ know _ that’s only if everything is a certain way,  _ including _ me. I’m precious to you because I indulge you and I’m dumb enough to enjoy it.”

Minho gaped at you, looking like a speechless fish the way he opened and closed his mouth in search of words, before he frustratedly whipped out his pack from his pocket, dug out a cigarette, and pursed his lips around it. He was a mix of indignant and helpless as he lit it and took a deep breath, for consternation and for the calming buzz, until you snatched the cigarette from his lips. You made him watch as you simply held it aloft and let it slowly burn down, wasting it in front of him. 

“The least you can do is talk to me and not hide behind  _ this _ ,” you pleaded sincerely. Minho sighed. 

“Fine. It’s a lot of that. I do those things, and I do it because I tell myself you like it, and sometimes that you need it, that if you keep running face-first into wherever your desires lead you, you won’t see where you’re going. These tiny rebellions are okay as long as I approve of them, apparently.”

“That’s fucked up,” you said, not bothering to mask the hurt in your voice. 

“It is,” Minho nodded earnestly. He gestured around him. “We do  _ this _ just because you suggested it and I agreed. I don’t cook for you until you tell me what you want. I only dress you up in things I think you like—“

“But?” You prodded. Minho watched the cigarette held up between your fingers turning to ash, a de facto timer. 

“But,” he hesitated, “I do that because that’s what I relegated you to. I  _ give _ you decisions to make and I’ve already approved the outcomes.”

“You’re an amazing friend, you know,” you sighed bitterly, “and I love you for it. You’re attentive, and thoughtful, and kind… but that’s a shitty thing to do.”

“It is.”

“Do you still think I’m  _ precious _ to you?”

“Yes.”

Your growing confidence in your little spat suddenly shattered. 

“Don’t act so  _ precious _ about it,” Minho reached forward, pinching the cigarette from your fingers and taking one good puff before he dropped it to the hardwood and stepped on it. “You practically  _ are  _ a diamond, but not for the reasons you already put in my mouth. I said you’re more precious than any paintings or jewels I can steal, and I know it’s not because you humor my unchecked need to be in control.”

You folded your arms expectantly. “Well?”

Minho tapped his foot, silently willing himself to just  _ say _ what he was thinking. 

“You can’t be had,” he finally said. “You’re not mine and I can’t steal you and  _ make _ you mine, so I don’t even try. It never felt right, but seeing you like  _ this _ makes me feel so  _ selfish _ . You’ve always been you and you don’t belong to anyone. You  _ won’t _ . Even when I exercise these little power trips over you, you’re unchanged. You’re still you and you won’t be had.”

“You can have me,” you said simply, and you knew it to be true the moment you said it. Minho took your counter in stride, hardly letting his stunned expression last. “You just had to say so.”

“But can I  _ keep _ you?”

“Why would you  _ want _ to? Besides, you can’t be, either.”

Minho stared you down and you could feel yourself doing the same. If he loved you for being unyielding, he would have to make the move. 

And he did. 

Minho crossed the few steps between you to pick up where he’d left off on the dinner table, cradling your chin in his fingers and gently dipping his thumb into the red adorning your lips again. If he was looking for permission, you gave it to him, closing your eyes again like you were still waiting for your treat. His pervading hesitance radiated through his fingertips, and you opened your eyes once more. 

“What’re you waiting for? You’ve done it before.”

“This feels different,” Minho said, quietly, carefully, like he was convinced he was sleepwalking. Your fingers slid over his hand to pull him off of you. You studied his hand in your own before turning it over and pressing your lips to the back, leaving a print of a perfect kiss there. 

“You wouldn’t know what to do with me if you had me, is that it?”

Minho floundered for words again, but his reflexes were quick when you pulled one step back in an attempt to get another move out of him, stepping back enough to feel the static of the mirror almost touching the exposed back of your dress. He grabbed at your arm this time, pulling you close as he took more charge. 

The way Minho kissed you wasn’t like any he’d given you previously. He wasn’t kissing you like an accidental brushing of your lips, or like you were friends, or like you were pretending to be more. Minho kissed you like he had a lot on his mind that he was trying hard to forget about for a minute, both hands softly cupping your face like you’d fly away if he were any lighter with you. Each movement of his soft lips against yours, each cautious and exploratory prodding of his carcinogen tongue was a question that you were seeking to answer. 

Minho’s hands drifted down your neck, over your shoulders and down your arms before they wrapped around your waist, and the content sigh he let out took on a shade of pride once you wrapped your arms around his neck. 

“ _ What do you want? _ ” Minho murmured against your lips. 

“You’re the one that craves control. Show me what  _ you _ want,” you grinned into your kiss, knowing full well that you were taunting him, but you didn’t expect Minho to take the bait. 

The air was almost knocked out of you with how Minho pushed you back against the mirror by your waist, his eyes eating you alive in a way that had never been openly pointed towards you before. Your lipstick was smeared across his lips, and you saw him catch sight of himself in the mirror behind you. He neared you again, suddenly seeming so much taller as he placed one kiss to your neck and pulled back away. 

“ _ Your turn, _ ” he breathed. You gave a coy smile as you poked one finger into his chest to back him up before you reached over to the bureau where you had set your lipstick earlier. Minho watched impatiently as you turned and took your time reapplying it, playfully careful to swipe it on as if it weren’t smeared across your mouth from his kiss as well. You capped the tube and placed it back on the bureau before taking another excruciatingly long look at your handiwork before Minho’s hand was back on your elbow and turning you to look at him. His other hand bloomed open at your belly, spreading open and his palm flat pushing you back against the mirror once more. You reached for the collar of his shirt, slowly unbuttoning the next two buttons before tugging him close by the tip of the pressed seam. Your lips pressed one perfect kiss to his throat, just over his quickened pulse, and his hand still on your elbow squeezed in time with his low groan, as you pulled away and rested your back flush against the mirror. Minho eyed your lip print on his jugular in the mirror and crowded you again. 

Your feet were softly kicked apart to accept Minho pressing against you, and his small smile was so self-assured, almost cocky, as you brushed your fingers into his hair when he kissed you again. His hand traveled down your waist to your hip and finally down the slit of your gown to grasp and caress your bare thigh. Minho’s fingers trailed back up the inside of your leg and this — your best friend’s hand under your clothes, groping and touching you as he moaned in your ear — was surreal. His voice was low, throaty and almost sleepy as he touched you. 

“How far—“

“You’re the one getting what you want, Min,” you reminded him, watching him shiver as you teasingly flicked your tongue once against his lip. “ _ Take it. _ ”

Minho nodded automatically before his other hand ventured to grope your breasts. “I’ve never seen you like this before,” he marveled. 

“You never looked for it,” you smirked. 

“Well then,” Minho’s grin was darkly charming, seductively dazzling before he kissed your neck again, “let’s see what I’ve been missing.”

You moaned softly at Minho’s lips dragging along your throat, nibbling on you as his hands roamed your body. His legs caged one of yours, making it easier for him to take one hand and grasp your thigh to gently spread you open against the mirror. Your breath caught in your throat as Minho’s fingers pressed along the curves of your body, until he tentatively caressed your warm pussy through your panties and you both moaned then, his fingers prodding to meet your hips instantly rolling to meet him. 

“Oh,  _ fuck _ , Min,” you gasped as he dipped his fingers beneath your panties. 

“ _ You still want me to take it? _ ” He asked, his hushed voice husky, thick with arousal as he teased your wetness. You nodded hungrily as Minho took his time to coat his fingers in your arousal before sliding one within your depths. His thumb pressed against your clit to draw steady circles against it and you were practically dumb where you leaned back against the mirror. Minho took the lead, unbuttoning his shirt the rest of the way and shrugging it off onto the floor, but not without first brazenly tasting his fingers as he pulled them from your panties. He took your hand and led you to the large bed against the wall and sat himself on the edge. Minho gave you a sly smile as he tugged on the skirt of your dress. “Let me see,” he sweetly demanded. 

You stood between Minho’s knees where he leaned back on his hands to watch you as your fingers pulled at the zipper running up the side of the bodice. The gown glided over your skin as it dropped to the floor, the subtle cool of the room instantly prickling your skin. Minho openly squeezed the outline of his hardened cock through his jeans before he pulled at your hips, bringing you close and looking up at you expectantly. His hands rested on the hem of your damp panties, and the moment he tentatively flicked his tongue over your aroused nipple, he easily stripped you of your last piece of clothing. As many times as you’d seen each other get dressed, he had never seen you naked. 

“ _ Look at you _ ,” Minho murmured around your nipple between his lips, “ _ look how hard you make me. _ ” 

“ _ Min _ ,” you pleaded quietly, “ **_do_ ** _ something. I need you. _ ”

Minho had a mischievous grin as he ran his hands up your thighs to your hips. “Settle down,” he smirked, “I thought I was taking what I want.” His hands pressed at your hips to back you up a step, and you could only watch as Minho slid off the bed and sank to his knees in front of you, before he ultimately nudged his lips against your glistening pussy. You gasped sharply at the sensation of Minho’s tongue writhing against your clit, and when his fingers resumed pumping into you, your legs were trembling as you struggled to stay standing. 

Finally, Minho pulled back to give you a small reprieve, and he looked up at you, his eyes and chin glazed in lust. “I’ve wanted to do this for a while now,” he drunkenly touted, and while he wasn’t ravenously licking you anymore, his fingers hadn’t stopped thrusting into you. Now his thumb drew those same lazy circles on your clit as he had before. 

“Minho, come on,” you urged. You needed more now that you’ve felt how much he wanted you. 

“What’s your hurry?” Minho smiled, darkly sweet as he kept his firm pace on you despite your desperate moans. “You wanted me to take what I want and I’m doing just that. I wanted to see you needy. I wanted to see you want me.”

“I  _ do _ want you,” you eagerly nodded, “please,  _ please _ hurry and give it to me.”

“Or what?” He taunted, and now he curled his fingers against your walls, roughly rubbing at your most sensitive spot and making you cry out. “If you want it so bad, you’ll have to take it for yourself, too.”

“Fine.” 

That was all the permission you needed. You pulled Minho’s fingers out of you and got a grip on his wrist, twisting his arm up so he’d be compliant as you tugged him up and shoved him back on the bed. Despite his shocked groans, he didn’t stop you as you easily unbuckled his belt and worked his jeans open, finally revealing his hard cock to you on full display. His length was beautiful just like the rest of him, blushing with a bead of precum adorning the tip as you got a grip on him. The moment you ran your tongue over the dripping head, Minho gripped the luxurious duvet on the bed to keep from instantly thrusting into your salivating mouth. He watched, dazed and entranced as you slid his rigid member deep between your lips. As you switched between sucking him and massaging his length in your hand, his eyes rolled back just the smallest bit, but now you craved to see it again. 

You were able to keep this up, working Minho into a frenzy as you alternated between licking and suckling his dripping length and jerking him off. Minho himself was a mess, eyes screwed shut and his hair matted with sweat to his brow as he kept having to stop himself from thrusting into your mouth. Finally, he broke. 

“Baby, please—” he moaned, the cockiness he’d upheld until now all but shattered.  _ Baby?  _ You’d always been  _ kid _ despite your age, but never  _ baby _ . Never  _ babe _ , or  _ sweetheart _ , or  _ princess _ . You’d only ever been a kid to Minho, but maybe that changed, if only for now. 

“Whose turn is it to take it?” You mewled as you quickened your strokes on the head of his cock, and Minho hissed out another groan. 

“My turn,” he panted, “I’m taking what I want.”

“And what about me?” You playfully taunted. Minho growled as he sat up and grabbed your hand off his erection before he threw you back on the bed. He slid off and stood for just a moment to pull off the rest of his clothes, and you got to admire the graceful lines of his figure, always within your reach but never before quite within your grasp like this. His skin was still littered with your kisses, both planned and unplanned, and you admired them on him as he climbed back into bed and settled between your legs. Despite your shared warmth, his length radiated against your slick entrance. 

“What about you?” Minho repeated, hesitant like a step before a high dive, “ _ You’re taking it, too. _ ”

Minho placed another kiss, laden with too many disregarded thoughts, against your lips as he firmly thrust into your depths, and you both gasped and shivered against each other until he was flush to the hilt inside you. “ _ Holy shit, _ ” he groaned, his lips now dragging along your throat and shoulders as he began to rock his hips against you, “how come we’ve never tried this before?”

“I’m starting to think we just never considered it to be an option,” you laughed, breathless as Minho fucked you into the mattress. Somewhere in the back of your mind, you recognized you could be nearing an orgasm, and it was still a bit weird to realize this was truly happening. You’d imagined this, maybe once or twice, and you’d  _ heard _ Minho with other women before, but nothing came close to what it felt like to actually be in bed with him. Maybe, you mused, he was coming to the same realization as he wantonly rolled his hips against yours. He enjoyed you like you were a home-cooked meal, and Minho was always the type of person to eat for satisfaction, not survival. 

“Oh,  _ fuck _ ,” Minho sighed against you, lost to his pleasure, “if we keep this up I’m not gonna last much longer.”

“What’ll make it worse?” You smirked, but it was quickly cut into a gasp as Minho sat up and pulled you with him as he sat back on his heels.

“Probably this,” he grinned mischievously, wrapping one arm back against your waist and his other hand resuming those same goddamn little circles on your clit and driving you mad. You writhed in Minho’s grip, your back arching into the bed as he stroked and teased your pussy. “Are you going to cum with me?” Minho teased you mercilessly. “Do I get to take that, too?”

“Only if you want it bad enough,” you managed to retort, cursing every single spark coming much too fast and finally giving way to your peak. Your climax was intense, making you see spots as you went momentarily deaf to your own gasps and cries. You were boneless, a useless ragdoll in Minho’s arms as the shockwaves went through to your fingers and toes and back again to hopefully restart your heart, and he wasn’t far behind apparently. Finally, Minho’s fingertips raked into your hips as he shuddered out a strangled groan and spilled into you. His eyes rolled back for only a split second before he collapsed on top of you, sucking in air as his stuttering hips began to slow to a stop, and he held you, trying to catch his breath as he lay inside you. 

“ _ Holy shit _ ,” Minho panted as he rolled onto your side, “ _ I can’t believe we actually did that. _ ”

Your mind was awash with what exactly you and your best friend had just done, and what — if anything — you would say to him, even as you stroked his hair, even as you affectionately rubbed his back. You thought. He breathed. 

You thought. He slept. 

And soon enough, you fell asleep as well. 

But even with a full night’s rest, you got right back to thinking as you awoke to the sound of birds outside in the garden. You hadn’t even drank any meaningful amount the previous night, but there was still a ringing in your ears and crust in your eyes. You sat up in the tangle of sheets that was once Mrs. Blackstone’s bed. First you recalled why you were naked. Then you blearily recalled why Minho was next to you in bed,  _ also _ naked. The ash in your mouth finally reared its head after you were too busy to pay attention to it the previous night. The ringing in your ears was persisting. 

And you realized why you actually woke up. 

The doorbell had rung. 

You dashed out of bed, quick to grab the plush robe hanging inside the closet and slip it on when you ventured out to the landing. There was a grand window, large and ornate, looking out over the lawn, and out on the path up to the house was someone gesturing for whoever was at the door to try again. You peered closer at who, exactly, was on the lawn when a spark of recognition landed. 

The gardener from yesterday. He was instantly recognizable with his lithe frame and hair pulled up into a modest ponytail. 

What was he doing here?

The doorbell rang a second time, the ringing chimes making you jump. 

The gardener looked right at you, having apparently noticed the movement in the window. He waved. 

You rushed back into the bedroom, your bare feet slapping the hardwood as you shook Minho awake. He, too, looked like he was just remembering what happened last night even though you were both entirely sober. 

“Good morning,” he sleepily beamed at you, “am I imagining things or did we—“

“There’s someone downstairs,” you alerted him. Minho was quickly in emergency mode, jumping out of bed and lunging past his briefs and going straight for his jeans. 

“Where?”

You led Minho to the window just to where he could barely see the gardener still on the path out front, hands casually in the pockets of his light jacket in the morning sunshine. In heavy contrast, there was a tepid but constant, rhythmic knock at the door. It wasn’t rushing, it was simply  _ beckoning _ . Minho’s darting eyes, trying to think of any and all options, probably matched yours as well. You were sure you could grab one Good pile and make it out the back door and over the back fence of the property if—

“See what they want.”

“What?!”

The knocking downstairs was taunting you. 

“See what they want,” Minho repeated, “it’s the gardener and probably another staff member. Worst case scenario, they want to beg Mrs. Blackstone for their jobs back, and we tell them she’s out of town. Best case scenario, they’re just here for their stuff and don’t care about us and who we are. We say we’re family or whatever and they shrug and leave and we’re fine. No staff ever sticks up for the boss.”

“I don’t know, Min,” you lamented, “I really think—“

“Kid, it’s going to be  _ fine _ ,” Minho reassured you, his hands firm on your shoulder. “Just go see what they want.”

The doorbell rang a third time. 

Minho began herding you down the grand staircase as you quickly brushed your fingers through your hair and bundled up your stolen robe extra tight. You hesitated at the doorknob and you closed your eyes for two seconds, soothing yourself. 

You opened the door. 

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted to my blog skzctnightnight.tumblr.com 💕


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